


A Druid's Lament

by ravenwing602



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief, Inner Dialogue, Mentioned Character Death, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Reincarnation, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 09:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13315140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenwing602/pseuds/ravenwing602
Summary: Centuries after the death of Vox Machina, archdruid Keyleth of the Air Ashari reunites with the reincarnations of her friends.*Pre-Campaign Two*





	A Druid's Lament

Keyleth knew her friends would die long before she would. Even the gnomes, the longest living race of their little merry band, would perish before she completed even a third of her life as an archdruid. She may not have comprehended it when she was young, but in what now seemed like the blink of an eye they began to fall. 

Grog died first, falling in a final battle against a hydra that had taken up residence near Emon. Percy followed a handful of decades later, leaving a grieving Vex’ahlia and three adult children when he succumbed to a wasting illness not even Pike could cure. Fifty years after Percival’s passing his wife followed him, falling asleep one cold winter night and never rising again, Trinket’s great-great-great grandson by her side. Scanlan was killed not soon after, stabbed to death when some brigand took too keen an interest in his daughter. Vax’ildan, her loving, idiot husband died next. He wasn’t ill or injured, but one morning he rose, kissed her forehead and told her it was time. That day he walked into the forest and didn’t return. Pike was the last of their friends to die, their loving cleric dying at the ripe old age of three hundred and twenty-seven surrounded by her children. 

After Pike’s death Keyleth retreated from the world, returning her full attention to her people. She watched generations of druids rise and fall, mentoring and befriending a few, but always holding them at arm’s length. She watched, listened the members of Vox Machina and their deeds fell into legend. Tales of the Archer, the Raven, the Songmaster, the Inventor, the Healer, the Feral One, and the Wild Witch were told to children at night, their victories, their sorrows, detailed with quiet reverence. There was no mention of the bumbling dragonborn sorcerer who accompanied them for years. Keyleth listened with a mixture sadness and relief as their history was distorted and changed with time, changing from painful truth to fanciful legend. Whitestone told the closest tale, but she had long since sworn to never return to Percy’s home. 

After the death of Vex and Percy’s grandson, the people of Whitestone stopped viewing her as a familiar ally, instead regarding her as a suspicious stranger. She returned a century after Vex’s death to pay respects, only for the city guard to turn her away from their crypt and when she protested chasing her from the city itself. 

Beside her, one of her raven shrieked, flapping his wings in protest of her turn in mood. 

“I’m sorry, love,” she whispered, running a gentle hand along his back. She glanced down the cliff, a small smile on her lips. The wind sang of newcomers, visitors both strange and familiar to the Ashari. 

“They’ve returned,” she said, raising a hand into the tumultuous wind. The air calmed under her gentle touch, reducing to a gentle breeze. Keyleth smiled, leaning forward and stepping into the open air. With an ease borne of centuries of practice she shifted into an eagle, gliding down the steep mountainside toward her interlopers. Guided by the wind, she found them in a matter of minutes. She landed in the highest branches of a nearby pine, tucking herself out of sight. 

A ragtag group of seven adventurers were camped beneath her, their raucous discussion and lack of dedicated watchman betraying their inexperience. Keyleth’s heart clenched as she observed the group, so similar yet so different from their previous incarnations. 

A lanky copper dragonborn, Vex’ahlia, sat by the fire with a tiny panther cub in her lap. A short purple skinned tiefling, Scanlan, was seated next to her, giving her a roguish smile. Across from the pair sat a beautiful moon elf, Pike, was cleaning a mace and speaking with a hulking half-orc. Grog seemed much the same as his last life, bare chested with a massive axe across his lap. Had her form allowed it, Keyleth would have smiled as her gaze landed on Percy. He was even taller than he had been as a human, sharp, aristocratic features and blinding silver hair betraying angelic heritage. He had always been fascinated with the celestial, it was only fitting he was reborn as an aasimar. Opposite him, a young half-elf, Tiberius, sat with a book in his lap, fiddling with a small necklace charm. Vax’ildan, her beloved husband, was fast asleep behind Vex’ahlia, his metallic scales shimmering in the firelight. 

“You’re sure this is the place?” Percy asked, tucking his long hair behind his ear. 

Tiberius nodded, not looking up from his book. “Every record I could find points to this place. If the legends are indeed true, we must climb to the top of the mountain range to find them,” he said, his voice a familiar rumble that seemed out of place coming from an elven body. 

Vex’ahlia set her cub aside, placing it on the ground beside her brother. “If the legends are true. We have no evidence that this tribe exists, nevermind this mythical archdruid you think can solve our problems,” she said. Percival nodded at her words, his elegant brow furrowed in worry. 

“We just need to have a little faith. His research was very thorough, I’m sure this is where we need to be,” Pike offered. Tiberius shot her a grateful smile, his elven face delightfully expressive. 

“Think she’ll be hot?” Scanlan asked, wagging his eyebrows at Tiberius. The half-elf gaped, a look of disgust flitting across his face. 

“She’ll probably be an old crone,” Vax’ildan offered, his eyes remaining closed. His sister thumped him on the chest, scolding him in loud Draconian. 

Keyleth cheeped in delight, old wounds in her heart soothed as she watched her old friends. Even reborn they were the same ragtag misfits she remembered. It pained her that she wouldn’t be able to rejoin them. Her heart belonged to the original Vox Machina, even if these were the same souls from her youth they would never be her beloved friends. Perhaps after her soul passed on the world would be kind enough to reunite her with them once again, but she could not bear to replace their memories, nor would she be able to handle losing them all a second time. Her eyes watered, and Keyleth had to shake tears from her eyes. She let out a deep breath, drawing up her composure. 

Once her mind settled she dove off the tree, gliding to the camp. She shifted back, her feet touching down on soft grass mere feet from the fire. She ignored the gasps of surprise and fumbling weapons as she smiled down at Vox Machina for the first time in half a millennia. 

“Hello, Vox Machina. I am Keyleth of the Air Ashari, and I have been waiting for you for a very long time.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this and want updates about similar stories, I have a twitter @FrozenRika


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